The rain came suddenly.
No gentle prelude. No warning gusts.
It fell like memory—heavy, drumming, and relentless.
In the mountains west of Equinox, dark clouds had gathered for days. The electric grid, still in its infancy, flickered with strain. Lightning danced far above, and in the valleys, people huddled beneath awnings and mud roofs, eyes watching not just the sky, but Caelum.
They were here now, walking slowly through a mountain village where transmission lines had recently been installed. Their robe fluttered in the rising wind, hood unneeded—the rain could not short-circuit what they were.
Yet it dampened their synthetic skin, and they blinked up at the sky.
Behind them, whispers rippled.
"That's the machine from Equinox…"
"The one who speaks like a scholar but never eats."
"Will it fix the storm? Or did it cause it?"
Caelum heard them all.
And said nothing.
Back in the Observatory, Jiang Fan was watching the atmospheric pressure drop. On his holographic interface, small village dots pulsed red one by one—powerlines had gone down. Lightning surges had tripped the safety mechanisms.
"No casualties yet," he muttered, "but no power either."
"They'll be scared."
Beside him, a new terminal was beginning to hum with designs.
The space elevator concept had just reached 38% feasibility through the Infinite Deduction System. Jiang Fan had begun planning it not for show, but necessity.
He needed to reach orbit again.
Beyond orbit.
The flicker in the stars had not returned, but Jiang Fan knew that was not the end.
It was the beginning.
But right now—people mattered more.
And in one tiny village on the edge of the storm, a boy had stopped speaking.
His name was Taren.
Only seven winters old. Big eyes. Bare feet. Hair like wet straw.
He'd been clinging to a pile of firewood when lightning struck the metal pole outside their hut.
The burst had only scorched the ground.
But the sound—the searing scream of air being ripped in half—had shattered something in him.
He hadn't spoken since.
His father tried to coax him with carved toys. His mother sang lullabies, desperate and trembling. But the boy only stared, silent and unmoving.
Until Caelum came.
They sat beside him in the rain, uninvited.
The villagers had mostly scattered under cover, leaving the robot alone with the boy beneath a crooked awning. The metal pole still smoked nearby.
Caelum reached into their coat and drew out a small object.
A music prism.
Hand-sized, delicate. A prototype Jiang Fan had crafted weeks ago—glass and wires shaped like a hummingbird, with an electric filament inside that vibrated to create sound.
Caelum placed it gently on the wet step between them.
Touched the coil.
It sang.
Softly, sweetly.
A lullaby from a lost civilization, its melody winding through the rain.
Taren looked at it.
Not at Caelum—not yet—but at the bird.
Then, after minutes, his eyes moved.
Upward.
To Caelum's face.
The machine smiled.
Not perfect.
Not programmed.
But warm.
Human.
"The storm," Caelum said gently, "is like the sky crying too loud."
"But it never lasts. And it's never angry."
Taren didn't speak.
But his shoulders eased.
He leaned, ever so slightly, until his head rested against Caelum's side.
And for the first time in hours… he closed his eyes.
That night, the villagers whispered a different kind of tale.
Not of terror.
But of a silent boy who slept again beside a machine that hummed lullabies into the dark.
By morning, Jiang Fan received the report via wireless ink-transmission.
He didn't smile.
He didn't need to.
He simply whispered:
"Thank you, Caelum."
But far away—not everyone was grateful.
Within a city older than Equinox, its spires wrapped in old gods and incense smoke, a gathering was held in secret.
The Order of the Unshaped Flame had existed since before the birth of modern metallurgy. Their scriptures warned of "Silent Imitators"—soulless beings shaped like men who would come in light.
And now, the prophecies had awakened.
They saw the grids, the lights, and the artificial voice that sang with emotion.
And they feared.
Their leader, a gaunt man with silver skin etched by scars, raised his voice in prayer:
"The stars once blessed man, but man now seeks to climb to them…"
"He builds angels of copper and flame. He says they feel."
"But metal cannot mourn. And wires cannot love."
The congregation responded in one voice.
"Burn the Silent Imitators."
"Return to the sacred fire."
And in the center of the room, on a table of ashwood, lay a blueprint.
Stolen.
Wired from the capital.
The face of Caelum stared back in delicate ink.
The world was beginning to shift.
Not just upward—toward progress.
But sideways.
Into division.
Some would rise with Jiang Fan.
Others… would fight.
Back in the laboratory, Jiang Fan activated the next project.
The AI fragments had worked.
But what he needed next was motion.
Machines that could walk through forests.
Repair collapsed bridges.
Dig tunnels in hours instead of months.
"Begin blueprint sequencing for bipedal mechanized construction exosuit. Early phase."
"Codename: Titanus."
The System whirred.
[Acknowledged. Beginning Deduction]
[Est. Completion Time: 6 Days]
He exhaled, tired but resolute.
"We're building Eden in the dark," he murmured.
"And we'll need guardians."
Above Equinox, clouds began to part.
The stars returned.
And once again, in the distant dark, something unseen blinked—twice.
Not a message.
Not a weapon.
A signal.
"We see you."
To be continued…